


Five People Who Noticed Mr. Jaggers' Big Stupid Crush on Miss Havisham (and One Person Who Noticed Too Late For it to Do Any Good)

by Verecunda



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:30:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7803766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Those 'poor dreams', which have, at one time or another, been in the heads of more men than you think likely..."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arthur Havisham

Dr. Losberne had come and gone, and now the servants crept about the house on tiptoe, speaking only in whispers. Even the noise from the street was subdued, the rumble of carriage-wheels muffled by the first snowfall of the winter. As if the whole world were afraid lest it should disturb the master of Satis House. As if it mattered one way or the other now.

The rim of the decanter, by contrast, rang harshly against the glass. Arthur was almost glad of it. He held it there, rattling, until the glass brimmed over, then he picked it up and knocked it back in one go, welcoming the burn of the brandy down his throat. It made him gasp, but it was a change from the numb blankness he felt otherwise.

“Arthur?”

He closed his eyes, fighting back a groan. When he turned, Amelia was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, twisting her hands fretfully together. She was very pale, and her eyes were red. Somehow that managed to irk him.

“Shouldn’t you be with Father?”

If she heard the gibe in his voice, she chose to ignore it. “Jaggers is still with him.”

Of course. Not one to waste any time, as soon as Dr. Losberne had delivered his news, their father had sent for Jaggers, and the two of them had been shut up together for what felt like hours now. Putting everything in order.

Amelia started forward. “Arthur…”

“What do you want, Amelia?”

He hardly knew what it was that compelled him to speak that way to her, but these days it always seemed that some perverse impulse made him want to be hurtful. He had hurt her now, he saw. She came up short, dismayed and bewildered.

“I came to see you, of course,” she said. “To see how you were.”

He looked down. “Well, now you’ve seen me. So you can go.”

He couldn’t bear the look on her face. It made him feel shabby, and he resented her for it. So he took refuge in spite.

“Leave me alone, Amelia. I don’t need you coddling me.”

Amelia was hurt, but she was stubborn enough to keep trying. She reached out and took his hand in hers. “Arthur,” she said gently, “I know how you must be feeling, but-”

“What do you know of how I’m feeling?” he cried, the words coming high and slurred even to his own ears as he pulled his hand back. She couldn’t have looked more appalled if he had reached out and struck her, but in that moment he didn’t care. What did she know? She was secure enough in her place that she could grieve without any complications, any shadow of words never said, of old quarrels never quite smoothed over, of so many opportunities lost, never to be redeemed now. What gave her the right to _presume_ to know anything about what he felt? “Save your pity for someone else, sister! Save it for _him_! He wants it, I don’t!”

Amelia looked as though she might reply, but just then, they both became aware that they were no longer alone in the room, and they turned as one to see Jaggers in the doorway, a bundle of papers gathered under his arm. He could only have been there a matter of seconds, but his expression was grim, intimating that he had heard at least part of their quarrel.

“Mr. Jaggers.” Amelia detached herself from Arthur and crossed the room to meet him, looking anxious and faintly embarrassed. “Have you finished, then?”

“Yes.” Jaggers’ expression didn’t give away much, but he looked quite worn-down beneath his self-possession. “I didn’t wish to tax him any further. It is all signed and sealed, anyway.” He cast a look from Amelia to Arthur, then back to her, his demeanour softening faintly. “How are you?”

Amelia gave a wan nod, presumably intended to signify that she was well. “How is he?” 

“Tired,” replied Jaggers, “but I left him awake.”

“You should go up to him, Amelia,” said Arthur, putting a barb in every word. “No doubt he’ll be asking for you.”

Amelia closed her eyes briefly; Jaggers’ face set.

“Excuse me, miss…?” One of the maidservants put her head round the doorframe. Amelia excused herself, leaving Arthur and Jaggers alone. Arthur smiled bitterly after her before moving to refill his glass. When he turned back, he saw that Jaggers was watching him with evident disapprobation.

“Go on, then,” said Arthur airily, dropping onto the couch and resigning himself to the imminent lecture, “tell me how I have offended against the family credit today.”

Jaggers’ mouth went very thin. “I think anything I might say would be wholly superfluous at this stage, Arthur. But I’ll admit I expected better of you than to find you drinking yourself into oblivion whilst your father lies on his deathbed and your sister manages everything on her own.”

“And what business is it of yours what I do?” demanded Arthur, stung. “It’s not for you to order me about, Jaggers. This is my house; I’ll do as I please. I am a Havisham.”

“Yes, you are,” said Jaggers coolly, and he heard, unspoken, _“By the skin of your teeth.”_ “And that is why it does not become you to make such an exhibition of yourself. Your place is here, not the Three Cripples. I know you have had difficulties with your father, Arthur, but if nothing else, I had hoped you would wish to be at your sister’s side now.”

At the mention of Amelia, Arthur made a derisive noise and looked away. Always - _always_ \- they came back to Amelia. So much for all his talk about the good of the family. Jaggers must think he was stupid, if he thought Arthur could not see what his true concern was. He’d have to be blind not to see it. He knew very well that Jaggers fancied his sister. As if a mere solicitor could aspire to a Havisham!

Not that he condemned him for it, oh no. Why shouldn’t Jaggers love Amelia? After all, everyone else did. She was so clever, and beautiful, and perfect: Father’s favourite, the servants’ pet. She wasn’t the child of a cook. There was nothing unnatural, nothing _wrong_ , about her.

His eyes were hot, his chest beginning to ache. Before Jaggers could see it, he hunched himself over and took a determined gulp of brandy, staring resolutely at the floor. They remained like this for a short while, locked in a silent battle of wills, until at length Jaggers evidently realised that Arthur would not be moved, and with a palpable sense of exasperation, left the room. Arthur feigned indifference, absorbed in his brandy, until Jaggers’ footsteps had faded and his oppressive presence was gone.

He sat there for some time, brooding over his glass, until he was roused by the sound of voices in the hall and went to investigate, leaning unsteadily against the doorframe. Amelia and Jaggers were by the front door, conferring in low voices. Amelia’s manner was one of contained grief, Jaggers’ one of quiet solicitude. They were near enough that he could interpose in their conversation without even raising his voice, but at that moment it was as if he were looking at them through a wall of glass, too thick for him to break down, too thick even to make himself heard through.

It didn’t matter, he told himself, as he ducked back into the drawing room and swallowed the last mouthful of brandy before reaching for the decanter again. Soon his father would be gone, and he would be master of Satis House. He would take his rightful place, and none of them would have cause to pity or look down on him again.


	2. Mr. Tulkinghorn

What doubts or misgivings were shut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn, nobody could guess, any more than they could what secrets were shut up in the great locked boxes in his office; but in the privacy of that inner sanctum, he was willing to allow, to himself, that he was disappointed in his junior partner.

He’d had high hopes for Mr. Jaggers when he had first taken him on: a close, watchful young man, ambitious, intelligent, enterprising, and possessed of a commendable streak of ruthlessness. Mr. Tulkinghorn had been used to keep his own counsel, but he had thought that in Jaggers he had found an ideal counterpart, whom he might mould in his own image.

But Jaggers had utterly resisted moulding. By and by, it had become apparent that they disagreed profoundly as to the part of a legal advisor in relation to his client. It was all very well for one lawyer to go up against another in the courts, but it wouldn’t do in a partnership, and so Mr. Tulkinghorn had determined to bring his junior to heel, only to be confounded even in this. For just as Jaggers refused to be moulded, he equally refused to be overawed. The force of character that Tulkinghorn had once found so promising now became a obstacle to him, and the result was that a sort of armed truce reigned in the chambers of Jaggers and Tulkinghorn, each equally watchful and suspicious of the other, each equally incapable of gaining the upper hand. It was a situation that Mr. Tulkinghorn found insupportable, and so - gradually, methodically - he began to sound Jaggers out, searching for some some flaw, some admission of human weakness beneath his professional front. 

It was upon this theme that Mr. Tulkinghorn’s mind turned on Christmas Eve. Night had long since fallen outside his window, and his office was dark save for the light cast by the small fire still burning in the grate. The snow had ceased, and the street outside was quiet, the market-stalls closed up, the distant voices of carol-singers penetrating the imposing gloom of the lawyers’ offices but faintly. 

The building itself was quiet, most of their clients having concluded their business before nightfall, eager to cast off their worldly cares and repair to the bosom of their families for Christmas. Tulkinghorn’s last engagement had been with Miss Barbary, laying before her the facts of her father’s prospects, and now he sat alone, ruminating in silence. A glass of wine mellowed on the desk before him, and his watch lay open beside it. Jaggers, however, had been detained in his office for the reading of Mr. Havisham’s will.

An interesting family, the Havishams. Tulkinghorn remembered well the tremble that had gone through society at the news of Mr. Havisham’s hasty second marriage to his cook. There was a story there, he sensed. Often one scandal brought into the light merely hinted at a whole host of them hidden just out of sight, waiting to be drawn out. It was to be regretted that he had no hand in that business, but all the confidences of the Havisham family were filed away in Jaggers’ office, where he could not get at them.

Mr. Havisham’s will was also proving to be of interest, for Mr. Heep had reported to him that the young Mr. Havisham had stormed out of Jaggers’ office just before six o’clock, in a state of high indignation. A most unexpected attitude for the heir apparent to one of the largest fortunes in London. The inevitable conclusion must be that the contents of the will were not as straightforward as might be expected.

So much for the boy. That left the girl. She hadn’t left the office with her brother, and only now did Tulkinghorn hear the sound of Jaggers’ door opening. He glanced at his watch. Just gone eight o’clock.

“Well, well,” he said aloud.

Laying his hand on a bundle of papers pertaining to Mr. Barbary’s interests, Tulkinghorn got up and quietly opened his own door. The hallway was dim, but Jaggers’ doorway threw out a broad swathe of light, and framed against it were the figures of Jaggers and the Havisham girl. By this same light, he was able to discern that the girl’s face evinced signs of weeping, though she was otherwise quite composed. That she had been weeping was of less interest to Tulkinghorn than the fact that Jaggers should have suffered her to do so in his office, and for so long.

Jaggers’ own manner was perfectly self-possessed, but his gaze as he spoke to the girl betrayed an earnestness - even a tenderness - that must surely have caught the notice of even a disinterested onlooker. The girl took her leave of him, making her way down the darkened stairs, and Jaggers watched her go, attentive to the last, until she passed out of sight.

It was then that he became aware of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s presence in the hallway. In an instant, all suggestion of tenderness went out of him, leaving only cold reserve behind. It was a creditable recovery, but it came too late. Before he could withdraw into his office, Tulkinghorn came forward.

“A word with you, Jaggers.”

A look of resignation was Jaggers’ only sign of acquiescence, but it was enough, and Tulkinghorn followed him into his office. Jaggers said no word but went straight to his desk and began gathering up the papers there, the Havisham will and all related documents smartly folded up and put away before so much as Mr. Tulkinghorn’s shadow should fall over them. In their place, Tulkinghorn laid the bundle he had brought from his own room.

“Barbary is ruined. He’ll be in the Fleet within a month. I’ll leave it to you to tie up the necessary loose ends.”

“I’m obliged to you for the consideration,” rejoined Jaggers, already moving to his washstand.

“It will not overtax you, I dare say,” said Tulkinghorn. He watched as Jaggers filled the basin from the jug set by for the purpose and reached for his soap, as apparently indifferent as if his senior partner was not with him in the room; then he added, “Unless your business with the Havishams is likely to occupy more of your time.”

Jaggers’ hands, which had been working up a lather, stilled. Slight enough, but Tulkinghorn recognised his hesitation for what it was, and he took a step closer.

“The will has been read, then?”

Without raising his eyes, Jaggers replied, “Yes. Miss Havisham has inherited the business.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Tulkinghorn paused, contemplating this intelligence. It explained the brother’s displeasure, but it was the young lady’s position that commanded his attention, as its various complexities and difficulties presented themselves to his mind.

“Well, well,” he said. “Singular.”

Something in his voice made Jaggers look up then, and he fixed Tulkinghorn with a look of significance. “Indeed.”

His tone was firm, final, as much as to say that was the only concession he would make, and that the subject was now closed. There was no use in his questioning further. But though the Havisham secrets remained out of his reach, Tulkinghorn saw that there were other implications he might take up.

“I am sure, Jaggers,” he said, “that in her new situation, the young lady may depend upon your complete and wholehearted loyalty.”

For a moment Jaggers seemed not to breathe. Then he replied, in a tone of perfect calm, “Miss Havisham is my client, and I will, of course, take care of her interests.”

The power of will that must sustain that show of professional indifference was admirable, but Tulkinghorn was not to be thrown off so easily.

“I’ve no doubt sure you will, sir,” he agreed. Then, thoughtfully, “A fine young lady, with great expectations. She will make a great match, I’m sure, for the gentleman fortunate enough to win her.”

Jaggers’ countenance betrayed no emotion, but Mr. Tulkinghorn’s attentive eye could see the unnatural rigidity of every line in it, and he sensed his partner’s momentous self-control in keeping his emotions in check. Beneath that outward self-possession, he was bristling, as his whole being rebelled against Tulkinghorn’s speaking of her, of his being even in the same place as his feelings for her. 

“Will that be all?” No feeling, still, in Jaggers’ voice, but the look he sent his partner was full of danger.

Tulkinghorn allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. It was dangerous ground, that crossroads where professional loyalty and private admiration trespassed upon each other, and one where more cautious men than Jaggers had lost themselves before now. For a man of Jaggers’ character, such a conflict of feeling must be disagreeable. Mr. Tulkinghorn’s knowledge made it intolerable.

He inclined his head. “That will be all. Goodnight, Mr. Jaggers.”

He would never ruin Jaggers with this, not so long as Jaggers seemed resigned to love the girl from a distance, but for now it was enough to know. Enough to remind Jaggers that he was not as implacable as he supposed, that through the pretty Havisham heiress, he had betrayed himself. Enough to let him know that though he might endeavour to hide it, Tulkinghorn saw into his deepest heart, and his secret was no longer his alone.

His point gained, Mr. Tulkinghorn withdrew. As he left the office, he glanced back. His last sight, before he closed the door behind him, was of Jaggers washing his hands with even more determination than usual.


	3. Honoria Barbary

Honoria had never passed such an awful night. Watching, helpless, as her father was hauled away by the bailiffs… the whole thing seemed like it must be some kind of hideous dream. But it was no dream, coldly proven by the simple fact that she was very much awake. Frances had suggested she go to bed, for there was nothing they could do at this time of night, but for hours on end, she tossed and turned, pulled this way and that between shock and fear and disbelief. Papa couldn’t go to prison. He _couldn’t_. Over and over, she turned it in her mind, searching desperately for some answer, but try as she might, nothing came.

She slept a little towards dawn, but it didn’t do her much good. She woke up exhausted and so sick with anxiety it was all she could do to keep down the little bit of toast and tea that Rose brought her. It must have put some life into her, however, for by the time she had dressed and gone downstairs, she could feel a vein of determination begin to form within her.

“Someone must be able to help,” she said to Frances in the breakfast room. “Papa knows so many people - traders, bankers, everyone. They must be able to help somehow.”

She fidgeted in her seat, hardly able to sit still. James had promised to help her, before Frances sent him away last night, but he had duties at the barracks all morning, and couldn’t be with her until the afternoon. And she knew she couldn’t bear the thought of just doing nothing until then. Every second she sat here idle, was a second that her father was suffering.

“I’ll go to Mr. Jaggers,” she said, in a flash of inspiration. “He must be able to do something.”

“If there was anything he could do, he would have been in touch with us by now,” said Frances. “I think we must look for help elsewhere, perhaps-”

Before she could finish, Honoria pushed back her chair and got sharply to her feet. She sensed the shadow of Sir Leicester Dedlock looming behind Frances’ words, and she was determined to give her no excuse to bring him into it. Anyway, the idea was in her head now, and refused to be dismissed. Almost before she knew it, she was calling for Rose to fetch her bonnet and cape. She had never visited the lawyers’ offices alone, and the thought of doing so now daunted her, but all it took was the thought of her father suffering alone in some dreadful prison cell to put some steel in her nerves and some purpose in her step as she hastened across town.

She had only a passing acquaintance with Mr. Jaggers, just enough to give her an impression of a rather stern, professional gentleman. She doubted she had ever exchanged so much as five words with him, and she had heard Papa complain about him often enough, but Amelia had mentioned that he had been most helpful whilst she was getting to grips with the brewery, so she took encouragement from that.

However, her hope started to fade almost as soon as she entered his office. Mr. Jaggers heard her out as she laid out the facts of her father’s arrest, but although he listened attentively enough, she began to realise, to her increasing dismay, that there was so sign of sympathy anywhere in his manner.

When he finally did speak, all he said, coolly, was, “You must see, Miss Barbary, that there is very little I can do for your father at this point.”

This wasn’t at all what she had wanted to hear, and it took her momentarily aback. “But you’re his lawyer, sir.”

“His lawyer, not his banker. I can only offer advice, not the means to pay his debt. I have already interceded with Scrooge and Marley on your father’s behalf several times, and I fear any further attempts at intercession now would be a waste of time.”

“But surely there must be laws!” Honoria cried. “Mr. Scrooge cannot just send bailiffs round when _he_ chooses. They can’t just lock him up, just like that! Surely there must be authorities to go to, or terms, or…” She trailed away, unsure what there must be, only certain there must be _something_.

But Mr. Jaggers remained aloof. “If he has failed to honour the terms of his agreement, then Mr. Scrooge is entirely within his legal right to call in his debt.”

Legal right! “And what about morals, Mr. Jaggers? Don’t they count for anything?”

He raised one eyebrow, as if she had said something unutterably foolish, and her indignation rose.

“So you will just stand by and let my father go to prison?”

“If there were anything to be done, I would naturally do it. But the fact is, Miss Barbary, that despite my advice - advice, I may add, that your father persistently refused to take - his affairs have been in a desperate state for some considerable time, and his debts are out of hand. Mr. Scrooge is not the only creditor to whom he owes money. Nor are his loans the only concern. For my own part, I haven’t seen a penny from your father in many weeks and, given the circumstances, I’m unlikely to see another any time soon.”

A gasp of sheer disbelief escaped her. She had come to him for help, and he was worried about payment! The worst of it was, he spoke so calmly, so utterly unfeelingly, as if her father’s suffering meant nothing at all to him. She was beginning to think that Amelia’s lawyer must be some other Mr. Jaggers, for he could hardly be the same soulless statue of a man sitting across from her now.

“Money!” she said bitterly. “Is that all anyone in this city cares about?”

“It’s money that has put your father in this predicament,” replied Mr. Jaggers.

“Is that all you have to say, sir?”

“That is all.” With that he stood, and began to gather up the papers on his desk, quite untroubled. Something about the nonchalance of his action told her, very clearly, that in his mind he had already washed his hands of her father and his affairs. Her temper flared, and she sprang to her feet, unable to contain herself.

“You’re very quick to dismiss my father, Mr. Jaggers, now that you can’t bleed any more money out of him. Would you have said all this to a client who _could_ pay you? Would you dismiss Amelia so quickly?”

His head snapped up at that, and she hardly knew what it was, but something in his look - some pause, some flash of emotion - rooted her to the spot, and she saw at once that she had just stumbled into forbidden territory. For an instant they stared at each other across the desk, and it was hard to say who was the more mortified. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the look was gone, and he was all self-possession once again. But there was now such a look of contained hostility etched into every line of his face that she realised, far from appealing to his better nature, she had just lost all ground she might have gained with him.

“I have said all I have to say, Miss Barbary.” His voice was ruthlessly calm. “I have done all I can to advise your father in this, and if he has gone wrong, it's no fault of mine.”

The heat rose in her face, and a knot of conflicting emotions tangled painfully in her breast: anger, disbelief, dismay, embarrassment… she could hardly unpick them all. Only one thing stood out clear: she would get no help from him.

It took every ounce of willpower she had to keep her voice steady. “Then if that’s all you have to tell me, good day to you, sir.”

She didn’t wait for him to reply, but turned on her heel and left the office as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. She hardly saw where she was going, and she nearly collided with Mr. Tulkinghorn in the hallway as he emerged from his own office. Sweeping past him without a word - for she had no wish to deal with any more lawyers today - she made her way downstairs and out into the street. Once outside, alone amidst the whole impervious rush of the City going about its business, the sheer hopelessness of her situation hit her. Mr. Jaggers had been her only plan, and he would not help her. If she hadn’t said… but it was done now, and he had made his position very plain.

The injustice of it all made her furious, and she was at even more of a loss than ever. But Mr. Jaggers was not the only one with whom her father did business. If he wouldn’t help her, someone else would. And she had James. Together, they would help Papa. That was what love should be: a force for good, not some guilty, shameful secret that must be hidden away at all cost. Well, let Mr. Jaggers keep his secret. She and James would help her father. Somehow, together, they would find a way.


	4. Meriwether Compeyson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love episode 12, for oh so many reasons.

Confusion was not a feeling Compeyson was used to, and it was not one he relished. The shock of Sally’s arrival on the scene had taken him flat aback, and it took much longer to placate her than he’d wanted, but he still hoped he might reach the Havisham meeting in time to make his presence felt, at least. He expected to find Amelia floundering, beleaguered by her shareholders’ contempt, giving him the perfect opportunity to insinuate himself into the proceedings and, if need be, offer his support in her moment of need and so put her even more in his power. He did not expect, when he finally reached the lawyer’s office, to find her receiving a standing ovation - a _unanimous_ standing ovation.

This wouldn’t do at all. His plan depended on an Amelia Havisham who was isolated and vulnerable, not an Amelia Havisham radiant with triumph and confidence. Damn it, why hadn’t Arthur delayed the meeting as he’d told him? 

Perhaps it wasn’t a complete failure. Perhaps he might still find something to salvage. He hung back as the meeting concluded, keeping out of the way until most of the shareholders had filed out - every single one of them, it seemed, congratulating Amelia as they passed her - before coming forward to offer his apologies. At the sight of him, the elation in her face softened.

“Your poor friend! What a dreadful shock.”

“Yes,” he said, catching onto the story that Arthur must have spun her - thank God he had some wit left, at least. All the same, his mind felt damnably slow and sluggish as he fumbled to catch up. “Yes, it was - ah - very unexpected.”

Her face was full of compassion, and a lifeline suddenly presented itself. This was good; this was something he could work with. If he was grieving, he was vulnerable, and any suggestion of vulnerability from him was sure to draw her in. All he had to do was engage her sympathy, turn her attention away from her own success and back onto him…

“Impressive, Miss Havisham.”

But now here was the lawyer, stepping up to offer his compliments and inform her that one of her shareholders wanted a word. It was neatly done: her attention at once returned to the meeting, and with a smile and an apology, she excused herself. The lawyer followed. He hadn’t acknowledged Compeyson at all, and Compeyson’s first thought was that he had decided to overlook his presence altogether.

But no, just before he turned away, the lawyer met Compeyson’s gaze. A keen, suspicious, deliberate look. It lasted just a moment, but it was enough to let him know that his presence had been noted, and to tell him, very plainly, “I know what _you're_ about, sir, and you’ll have to go through me first.”

Yet again, Compeyson found himself brought up short. He’d expected he would have to reckon with the family lawyer eventually, once the money started to change hands. But not this soon.

And as Amelia and Mr. Jaggers withdrew, up came Arthur, fixing him with a look of reproach. Somewhere through his bewilderment, Compeyson felt a cold dart of anger. Damn him, he would never have dared look at him like that a few days ago!

He turned back to watch Amelia, hoping to snatch her away at the first opportunity that offered, but she was deep in talk with her shareholders, and the more she talked, the more they seemed to want to hear.

And all the time, the lawyer never left her side. Not once, though Compeyson watched intently, did he take his attention from her. He took part in the conversation here and there, but on the whole seemed content to act as Amelia’s faithful shadow. Her whole face was alight and animated, enhancing her beauty ten times over, and as he looked at her, the lawyer smiled openly, his expression as proud and fond as if he were an intimate friend, not merely her legal advisor.

Oh. So that's how it was, was it?

With this new intelligence in mind, he observed Mr. Jaggers closely, alert now to every nuance in his demeanour. For his part, the lawyer didn’t look towards Compeyson again, but he was still aware of his presence, for as soon as Amelia had finished speaking to one shareholder, he deftly moved her onto the next.

Well, two could play at that game, and at first Compeyson determined to wait it out. But apparently the brewing business was far more fascinating than he’d realised, for the discussion seemed to have no end. And the whole time, the problem of Sally nagged at the back of his mind. He had only managed a very fragile truce with her, and he couldn’t help the niggling fear that if he didn’t return to her soon, she would make good on her earlier threat and come looking for him. That was the last thing he needed.

So, with the greatest reluctance, he decided to let Mr. Jaggers have this one. Fuming with frustration, he gestured to Arthur and they pushed their way through the throng of elderly businessmen, out of the office and into the street.

“What happened to delaying it?” he demanded, more to vent his anger than anything else. He barely heard Arthur’s drivelling excuse: he had no doubt what had happened, and his mind was already working furiously on this latest obstacle in his path. He had heard of Jaggers, of course. The lawyer had a formidable reputation in certain low haunts of the city, amongst certain low circles of his acquaintance. A man you wanted for you, and definitely not against you. With one look, he had let Compeyson know that he was very squarely against him. And if he _was_ in love with Amelia, that made him doubly loyal to her, and doubly dangerous to Compeyson. There would be no seeing him off as easily as he had the cousin, that was for damned certain.

He was sure, though, that the lawyer hadn’t meant to show him quite so much as he had, and Compeyson grasped at that. He felt he had been handed some vital tool, if only he could work out how to use it. The thing he needed to determine, above all, was whether he was dealing with an enemy, or a rival. If the lawyer was his rival - if he had hopes of winning Amelia for himself - then he would be easier to deal with. His motives would be selfish, and more easily undermined.

But he had the uncomfortable feeling this wasn’t the case. A lawyer, of all people, must know all sorts of tricks for inveigling a naïve young heiress into an alliance, and this had obviously not happened, despite the time Jaggers had been involved with the family. And Compeyson would lay odds that Amelia was as ignorant of the lawyer’s admiration as she was of the cousin’s. Taken together, everything suggested that the lawyer had no real designs on Amelia, and had resigned himself to a merely professional connection. Normally, Compeyson would think a man a fool for such disinterestedness, but Jaggers was plainly no fool, and a disinterested admirer would be harder to expose.

But he had to do something. Whatever the lawyer’s motives, the danger was that he would warn Amelia of his suspicions. And he had the advantage of authority and a long-standing acquaintance. His interference at this stage could prove fatal.

Unless Compeyson got in first and revealed his secret. Even if he had no real intention of getting into her bed, such a revelation could be damning, and cast doubt on anything he might say against Compeyson. But making the accusation unprovoked, without anything to back it up, was too risky. Damn it, _this_ was why a straightforward rival was better: they always gave themselves away in the end. They couldn’t help themselves. 

The problem gnawed at him as he left Arthur complaining outside the Three Cripples and climbed the stairs to where Sally was waiting. With each step, he had an unpleasant sensation of walking over thin ice. Too many cracks appearing at once. Amelia had found new confidence in herself, Sally had turned up to jeopardise everything, even Arthur had apparently found some vague semblance of a spine. And now Jaggers, who was deeper in the secrets of Newgate than any lawyer in London, had marked him out as a threat. One false step, and he’d go straight to the bottom.

 _“Your plan is failing.”_ Arthur’s words came back to him like a taunt, but he shook them off. As if Compeyson’s failure wouldn’t mean the loss of all that brat’s hopes. Hot air, that’s all that was. 

But there was no denying he was running out of time. If he was to wrest back control of the situation, he must act fast. He could deal with Sally and Arthur; the lawyer posed more of a problem. But maybe it was less vital to discredit him, than to simply bring Amelia so far back into his power that no one else’s influence would signify. Bring her back, and her own infatuation and wilfulness would do the work for him.

There was no other way. Until now he had been pleased to keep his seduction of Amelia slow, to be sure of her, and draw out the enjoyment of her surrender to him. But now, if he was to come back from this, he must adapt. He must do something decisive, something that would bind her to him once and for all. And by the time he had reached the landing, he already had the first stirrings of an idea.


	5. Inspector Bucket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mild allusions to suicide, and miscarriage.

“Thank you for coming, Inspector. I trust I’m not keeping you from anything.”

“Nothing pressing, Mr. Jaggers.” Mr. Bucket removed his hat and settled himself in the cliental chair whilst Jaggers closed the office door. A glass of sherry had already been put out for him and he took an appreciative sip. He had, on the whole, a great respect for Mr. Jaggers. Their respective professions put them squarely at odds more often than not, and they disagreed profoundly on their duty as agents of the law, but he made a point of keeping professional and private differences separate, and he acknowledged the gesture of civility in kind.

Mr. Jaggers took his own seat, but did not speak at once, and Bucket was obliged to test the ground himself.

“You wished to consult with me?”

“Yes, I did.” No further explanation: Bucket thought he sensed a shade of hesitation in his manner.

“Your note did not give very much away.”

In truth, it had aroused his interest. His dealings with Jaggers, whether they be of a co-operative or a contentious nature, had always been straightforward and to the purpose. This strange reticence was extremely out of keeping, and suggested something rather out of the ordinary was afoot.

“No,” said Jaggers. “In this matter, I’d prefer to be discreet.”

“A matter of some delicacy, then?”

“Yes.”

“Delicate for yourself, or for one of your clients?”

“A client.” Jaggers leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “It concerns Miss Havisham.”

He hadn’t expected that. “Miss Amelia Havisham?”

“Of course.” Jaggers paused, and seemed at rather a loss how best to proceed before going on, “No doubt you’ve heard about the wedding.”

“I’ve heard rumours.” 

The Havisham wedding had provided the gossips of the Three Cripples with unusually rich pickings after the furore surrounding Mr. Marley’s murder had died down. There was talk of family quarrels and dodgy dealings, though no one could quite agree on the particulars. It was even a matter for debate as to whether the bridegroom had shown his face at all, or merely absconded. The gossip had only redoubled as the weeks passed and there had been no sign of the unfortunate bride herself. Speculation ranged from the prosaic to the fantastical: that she was too shame-faced to show herself in public; that she had gone stark raving mad and been locked away in the interest of public safety; that she had died of a broken heart on the spot and the servants were conducting an elaborate ruse whilst they lived the high life in the big house.

Bucket kept his ears open to gossip, as it was useful for appraising the general opinions abroad in the streets, and if one was careful, one might pick up a thread leading to an invaluable clue, but he had a distaste for the mean delight that accompanied it. He had never met Miss Havisham, but he had seen her about town often enough, and she had always struck him favourably: bright, vivacious, purposeful. It saddened him to think of her being brought low in so cruel a manner.

“I hope the young lady is well?”

“As well as might be expected.” Jaggers’ tone was noncommittal enough, but some shadow seemed to come into his face. Sensing that any further questioning on that front would not be welcome, Bucket returned the talk to a more businesslike footing.

“What might I do for Miss Havisham, then, Mr. Jaggers?”

“It has to do with her brother. I wish to enlist your help in finding him.”

“Finding him?”

“Yes.” The shadow deepened. “He was lodging in the Three Cripples, but has since disappeared. He took nothing with him, and left his bill unpaid. I’ve made some inquiries of my own, but I’ve been unable to trace him.”

“Debts?” Bucket hazarded.

“Considerable.” Jaggers picked up a closely-written sheet of paper and handed it over. “Here is a list of the various tradesmen and moneylenders with whom he has run up an account. Mr. Scrooge has been here more than once, demanding to know where he is.”

Bucket perused the list, touching his finger to the side of his nose. The debts enumerated were indeed considerable, and would more than account for Mr. Havisham’s disappearance.

“Does the young man have any regular means?”

Jaggers’ face was grave. “A monthly salary from the brewery. He’s a spendthrift: usually he tears right through it, but his account with the bank has not been touched since the day of the wedding.”

That cast a rather dark shadow over the matter. Bucket’s mind had already tallied up the hospitals, gaols, and sponging-houses. Now other possibilities presented themselves to him: the dense maze of slums about Tom-all-Alone’s, the last retreat for those who had lost all hope; the rookeries and opium dens; the grim places down by the river where the bodies were brought… But Mr. Jaggers was as well-acquainted with the city’s darker aspect as he, and those possibilities must surely have occurred to him, too.

“You have some theory of your own, I take it?”

Jaggers considered his answer before giving it. “I believe Mr. Havisham may have particular reasons for not wishing to be found. Not just his debts. I know I may rely on your discretion, Inspector: he confessed to me that he had planned to deprive his sister of her inheritance, and that he engaged Mr. Compeyson as his accomplice.”

Bucket had brought out his pocket-book preparatory to their conversation, and now he made a few brief notes on a fresh page. He heaved a sigh. The whole thing seemed a more sad tangle than even the gossips had conceived. He had observed young Mr. Havisham in the Three Cripples on more than one occasion. A lonely, hurting lad, he’d thought him, despite his airs. Not a natural-born conspirator.

“You believe guilt - remorse - may have prompted his disappearance?”

“I do.”

“What about this Mr. Compeyson? You don’t suspect him of foul play?”

He had not been altogether surprised to hear that the bridegroom had turned out to be a wrong ’un. He still hadn’t placed the young man’s face after running into him in the pub, but he was increasingly sure that whatever the nature of their previous acquaintance, it was nothing to Mr. Compeyson’s credit.

But Jaggers shook his head. “Not in this case. There was bad blood between the two of them, but my intuition tells me that Mr. Havisham’s disappearance was his own act. I understand you may consider it worthwhile to seek Mr. Compeyson out, but I would prefer him to be kept out of this if at all possible.”

Bucket sat back and put a meditative finger to his lips. He was inclined to accept Jaggers’ opinion, but the problem weighed heavy, all the same. “A delicate business,” he said at last. “Are you sure it’s advisable for a stranger such as myself to be brought into it? You have a long acquaintance with the family and resources of your own. Aren’t you perhaps better suited to the task?”

“Ordinarily, I would have taken the matter in hand,” Jaggers agreed. “But Arthur Havisham has succeeded in sabotaging one investigation of mine already, and I’m not willing to risk him doing it a second time. Knowing you to be a man of principle-” this, Bucket thought, with an edge of the sardonical - “I thought you the best man for the job.”

“My concern is, Mr. Jaggers,” said Bucket, putting up his finger to emphasise the point, “that if you are correct in your supposition and the young man is determined not to be found, he mightn’t take too kindly to finding a police officer on his trail. A more familiar touch, on the other hand, might smooth the way. Perhaps if I had some assurance for him that the young lady, his sister, wished him to come home-”

“That’s an assurance I cannot give you,” cut in Jaggers. It fairly flashed out of him, in fact, and Bucket looked at him in some surprise. Then he frowned.

“Then why should she wish to find him?” Even as he said it, understanding dawned on him. “It was not Miss Havisham who asked you to undertake this investigation.”

“No.” To all outward appearances, Mr. Jaggers had recovered his equanimity, but there was something there, just beneath the surface, that Bucket couldn’t quite discern. 

“This was your own idea.”

A terse nod. “My hope is that if Arthur Havisham can be found, I might still be able to do something - affect some kind of reconciliation. I was unable to prevent Miss Havisham falling victim to Compeyson, but this might repair some of the damage, at least.”

Bucket was struck by the impression that Jaggers looked suddenly very tired. Difficult to say just what had given him that impression: there was nothing evident in his attitude, no obvious slumping of the shoulders or shadows beneath the eyes, but it was there somewhere, a conviction of bone-deep weariness that surprised him. It wasn’t unexpected that a professional man should feel the strain of such a tangled web in his clients’ affairs, but this seemed something rather more, and Bucket thought he divined a link between that and the way in which he had spoken of Miss Havisham.

“If I may say, Mr. Jaggers, you seem to take a great deal upon yourself for this young lady’s sake.”

“I should do.” Jaggers leafed through a few papers without attending to them. “She pays me well enough.”

It was a tolerably flimsy evasion, and Bucket couldn’t help the ghost of a smile. “That’s not quite what I meant.”

Jaggers met his eye, one brow raised. The sardonical edge had returned, and it was now turned directly on himself. 

Bucket had never expected he should find himself feeling sympathy for Mr. Jaggers, of all people, but there it was. It was a hard, wearying thing to watch someone you loved suffering, to feel your heart break along with theirs. He remembered only too well his own feelings, watching Mrs. Bucket after she had miscarried. Willing to do anything, to take any amount of her unhappiness on his own shoulders, completely helpless to do anything besides grieve along with her.

In the end, it was that which decided him.

“I’ll look into it, Mr. Jaggers.”

Jaggers nodded, satisfied. “Thank you, Inspector.”

He stayed long enough to gather a few more notes in his pocket-book, enough to start himself off. Then he put it away, took up his hat and cane, and got to his feet. Jaggers was already putting away the papers pertaining to the Havisham affairs, and Bucket noted again that same, indefinable air of weariness about him.

“Perhaps,” he said, “the young lady just needs a little time.”

“Perhaps.” It was a ready enough acknowledgement, but there was a discouraging absence of hope in either Jaggers’ voice or his looks, and he did not look up when Mr. Bucket finally withdrew, leaving him alone at his desk.


	6. Amelia Havisham

There were no days of the week now at Satis House, no weeks, no months, no years. There was only time, marching remorselessly on and grinding everything to dust beneath its heel. That same dust had begun to encroach upon the house: it lay thickly over the long table in the dining room, shrouding all its former splendour and deadening all sound. Cobwebs draped alongside the withered bridal garlands, hanging between the portraits, the candle-sconces, the table ornaments. The fire in the grate did little to lift the damp chill, and seemed less to light the room than to nudge halfheartedly against the darkness, snatching fitful glimpses of the desolation: here, the black speckling of mildew on the ceiling; there, the forms of the creatures that scuttled in the far corners.

But even here, in this timeless place, there was one day distinct from the rest.

“As punctual as ever, Jaggers,” said Amelia, as the man himself entered the room and closed the door noiselessly behind him.

“As punctual as ever,” he replied. “Have your relations called yet?”

“Not yet. But they will come. They always do.”

Neither of them made any further allusion to the date, but their awareness of it hung about them, as heavy as the cobwebs, as thick as the dust. She sat in the chair at the head of the table, whilst he stood further down, toward the centre. They faced each other from the same positions they had occupied then, like two ghosts compelled to act out the fatal scene again and again.

_“You all knew. Everybody knew.”_

_“No. Not until today.”_

Did he think that absolved him? He was as guilty as the rest. Just one more man who had deceived her, who had taken her fate into his own hands for his own purposes. Her fingers tightened around the letter, unfolded before her. She had no need to read it: the ink may fade with time, but every word was branded on her heart. It was enough that he should see it and be reminded of his part in it all. Meriwether Compeyson had broken her heart, but it was Jaggers who had forced him to write the letter. It was he who had inflicted the truth on her. What did it do to him, she wondered, to see the results of his efforts? To see her here, surrounded by the ruin of all her hopes, the proof of all her foolishness, and know that he was the cause of it?

She looked up, just in time to see him glance at the letter in her hands. Seeing this, Amelia folded it up along its well-worn creases and put it away, then rose to her feet and extended her hand to him. “Come. Walk with me. We have some time until the Pockets arrive, I think.”

He gave a smile as dry and joyless as one of her bridal flowers. “Once round, Miss Havisham?”

She took his arm, and with her free hand gathered up the frayed, blackened train of her gown. Thus arranged, they began their customary walk around the long table, the still, dead air of the room seeming almost to resist their disturbing it. They made only slow progress, for her gown was cumbersome, and with only one shoe she was reduced to an awkward, shambling pace. But Jaggers bore her with apparent indifference to any of these inconveniences. They had made this same walk often enough.

“How do you do in your new office, Jaggers?” she asked conversationally.

“I do pretty well,” said he, his boots rustling some withered petals on the floor. “A lot of clients have followed me from Tulkinghorn’s place.”

“You must be much in demand. I wonder you find the time to come here and see me.”

“I come here, Miss Havisham, because you summon me here.”

She glanced at him, wondering what he would do if he were not summoned. They walked on in silence from there, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. She looked over the room, at the wreck of her bridal feast, as the whole awful scene played itself out in her mind’s eye once again, more terribly vivid on this day than on any other.

_“You have stolen my heart.”_

_“And you have broken mine.”_

Her gown was a great weight as she hauled her train around the head of the table. It was limp with wear, the rich silks and laces losing their fullness, but it only seemed to grow heavier with time, as her skirts grew more and more encrusted with dust, the once pristine white soiled and tainted, just as she herself was. On this day of all days it was impossible to escape the knowledge of it.

But this same knowledge only served to strengthen her will. She had determined to wear her gown to remind herself of her foolishness, and so she would, no matter how dirtied and heavy it became. If she thought her resolve was in danger of failing, all it took was this day to come around again, for her to recall every detail of her betrayal, and remember herself again.

Her train slipped from her grasp as she brought her hand up to rest over her heart. The pain never left her; it was always there in some form or another. Sometimes it was a leaden weight that took all her strength to bear, sometimes a spike of agony so piercing it left her hardly able to breathe.

They had come abreast again with the remains of her bride-cake, and she brought them to a stop before it. Their approach disturbed the mice who had been moving over it and they skittered away in all directions, back into the darkness. The spiders continued oblivious, spinning more webs to join those already formed. The mice had worked through the webs in several places to gnaw at the cake, but still it sat there - enduring, implacable - no matter how many sharp little teeth worked away at it.

“I have heard that time heals all wounds,” she murmured. “I thought that, in time, the pain would pass. But it doesn’t.” She turned her eyes on him. “Does it?”

“No,” he agreed. His eyes were very dark as they held hers.

She nodded, and tightened her hand on his arm. “It only gets worse with time. I’ve found, as it gets older, it only festers all the more, and the pain only goes deeper.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does.”

She leaned in closer, the better to see his face. Perfectly still, but she could see the shadows of emotions darting behind his eyes, and she watched them with eager attention. Since shutting herself away from the world, she had had much time to reflect on her former life, on all she had suffered, on every betrayal she had endured. She’d had ample opportunity to see details that had previously passed her by, to recognise patterns that had gone previously unseen. She saw clearly now: so many truths and secrets which had once been hidden from her were now laid open.

“I told myself I would wear this gown until my heart was healed,” she said. “I know now I will wear it always. Nothing can mend my foolishness, I see that now. This pain will only endure. I will live out the rest of my life as I am, and when I die, they will lay me out on this table, in this gown, and the ruin will be complete at last.”

“You know your own business best, I’m sure.” 

He spoke in an offhand tone, as though nothing she might do could concern him in any way, but she saw him cast a dark look at the table. It was a formidable expression, and no doubt his clients out there in the world found it very terrifying, but she could see the unnatural stillness of his face, and feel the tension in his arm beneath her hand. Such a determined show of self-possession, stretched taut over such a depth of pain. He might choose to conceal his where she wore hers openly, but the feeling was the same, and it elicited a stirring of recognition in her own wounded breast. She leaned further into him, avid to see more. She wanted to see every rend in his heart, torn as deeply as those in her own. Why should he be spared the same pain and humiliation she must endure?

But perhaps he was not spared. Not for the first time, she wondered if he bore these walks as she wore her gown. They were bound together by the same misery, brought to this same point by their own errors. They understood each other.

Softly, she asked, “Do I use you very badly, Jaggers?”

When he looked at her again, his expression was caught somewhere between a frown and a smile. “I understood that to be the whole object of our conversations here, Miss Havisham.”

She frowned, but merely pulled on his arm. “Come. Let’s go on.”

At last they completed their slow circuit of the table, and he delivered her once more to the chair at its head. She did not sit at once, however, but stood and watched him. He was aware of it, for if anything his manner became even more guarded: he drew himself up and folded his hands behind his back, waiting patiently for her to continue. Something about that attitude called up some ghost of their former lives, something never now to be recovered, all the more desolate for being in that desolate room. 

“Do you feel you have lost me, Jaggers?”

At first he made no response. Then a grim, sardonic look came into his face. “No, no,” said he, shaking his head. “It’s very impressive, but it won’t do.”

She fired at this new show of obstinacy. “You will not answer the question?”

Once more he shook his head, and once more offered her that bleak parody of a smile. “With respect, Miss Havisham, as you were never mine, you cannot expect me to answer the question.”

She nodded. It was not quite what she had wanted, but it would do. “Then I believe that concludes our business for today, sir.”

“What about your relations?”

“I can handle the Pockets,” she said, with a dismissive gesture. “Good day, Mr. Jaggers.”

“Good day, Miss Havisham.”

His manner was all grim irony, as it had been when he’d given her his arm, but that unnatural tension was still there as he took his leave of her. She held herself still, too, her chest tight and heavy with the familiar pain as she watched him go. He closed the door behind him: a short, final sound before the heavy silence closed in upon her and she was alone in that darkened room once more.


End file.
